


Ritual Bath

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8746264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam knows how to take the pain away. Spoilers for "The Benders."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Ritual Bath

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: Sam knows how to take the pain away

Spoilers: "The Benders"

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Not mine, much though I wish they were

Warnings: Wincest  
Many many thanks to my amazing and thoughtful beta, [ ](http://nyxfixx.livejournal.com/profile)[**nyxfixx**](http://nyxfixx.livejournal.com/)

Notes: This is a Coda to "The Benders"  
Crossposted to [ ](http://community.livejournal.com/sn_slash/profile)[**sn_slash**](http://community.livejournal.com/sn_slash/), [ ](http://community.livejournal.com/snslashnotebook/profile)[**snslashnotebook**](http://community.livejournal.com/snslashnotebook/), and [ ](http://community.livejournal.com/wincest/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/wincest/)**wincest**  
  
 

 

 

Ritual Bath

 

They’ve driven for hours, almost ’til dawn, doing their best to avoid anyone who might think of them as ‘persons of interest.’ At long last, they’ve reached someplace that seems safe: quiet, out-of-the-way, well off the highway.

 

Sam checks in to the motel, because Dean’s face is still covered in blood.

 

Dean is moving stiffly. Tired limbs, bruised extremities, bitter cold: all conspire to make him limp and shuffle like an old man. Sam’s arm around his shoulders is moral support, physical support, and perhaps the slightest blow to Dean’s pride, though he’d never say it.

 

The room is small but clean, and in the early-morning light that is just beginning to try to peek in through the heavy curtains, seems almost pretty. Sam guides Dean to a faded but comfortable armchair. Dean sinks into it gratefully, cartilage objecting only briefly.

 

Sam busies himself with the duffels and the first aid kit and all of the things they might need. Dean drowses, waking abruptly when his chin falls to his chest, then slipping back into sleep again, over and over.

 

Dimly, somewhere in the distance, Dean hears running water. A bath, perhaps; he tries to struggle to his feet, to investigate, to find the source. His skin tingles in anticipation of the hot, clean, purifying water. But he can’t stand; his exhausted legs object, and he falls back into the chair.

 

Then Sam appears, stripped to the waist, a fresh towel slung over his shoulder, carrying the plastic ice bucket. Dean watches with weary interest as Sam kneels in front of him, and places the ice bucket on the floor.

 

Sam slowly pulls the towel from off his shoulder, and dips a corner in the bucket. He touches it gently to Dean’s face; Dean’s whole body shudders in response. The water is all he had imagined it would be: warm to the touch, soothing, clean and purifying. Sam squeezes water from the fabric, gently clearing away the caked blood, dipping the towel into the water over and over again, cleaning Dean’s face.

 

Feather-light kisses brush against the wounds, wounds too old now to be fresh but still too new to have truly begun healing. Dean glances down as his brother kisses his face, and from between half-closed eyelids he spies the cooling water in the bucket, now pink with his blood.

 

Sam places a gentle, chaste kiss on his lips; then he gathers up the towel and the bucket, and disappears into the bathroom again. Dean lets his head fall back against the chair, and listens to the sound of fresh-pouring water.

 

Sam reappears: new towel, fresh hot water. He kneels before his brother again. He dips the towel into the water, and gently cleans Dean’s neck and throat, washing away faint traces of blood, dried sweat, and bits of dirt. Each stroke of the towel is followed by gentle kisses; the water takes away the grime, the kisses take away the pain.

 

Sam eases Dean out of his jacket, then his shirt. He dips his hand into the ice bucket, and pours a palmful of hot, purifying water onto Dean’s chest. Slowly, the towel follows the trickles of water, dabbing at bruises, black and purple and bloody beneath Dean’s skin, fading to yellow on the outer edges. 

 

Then Sam is gone for a brief moment; Dean raises his head, trying to peer out of stinging, exhausted eyes. Sam reappears before him, with a smaller cloth this time, newly-moistened in fresh water from the tap. Sam kneels again, and touches Dean’s chest with the washcloth.

 

Dean shudders, and gasps; the water is cold, but refreshing. Slowly, Sam circles the borders of the poker burn, bringing cold water to soothe the red, already-blistered edges. Tenderly, he leans closer to Dean, pressing the cloth against charred flesh, angry black in the center and still stinking of cooked meat. Dean grasps the arms of the chair, his breathing deep but rapid, pain coursing through his body from this single nexus.

 

Sam takes away the cloth, and puts his mouth by Dean’s ear, promising doctors and hospitals and medicines in the future. Then he dusts the throbbing skin with kisses, and miraculously, the pain goes away.

 

Sam undoes Dean’s belt, his fly. He nudges his head against Dean’s chest, and Dean gathers the strength to lift his hips off the chair. He is tired, so tired, but Sam works quickly, pulling jeans and briefs down, and Dean’s muscles collapse again.

 

Sam tugs off the last of Dean’s clothes.

 

Then he dips the towel into the water again, bathing, laving, washing away the psychic essence left by the assault, cleaning the unseeable injuries, purifying Dean’s skin and soul and freeing him from the last lingering grasp of the madmen who tried to kill them. Faster and faster the towel moves, dipping always into fresh hot water, cleaning Dean’s stomach and hips and thighs and legs and feet. Sam carefully weaves edges of the towels through Dean’s toes, along the tops and soles of his feet.

 

Then Sam sets the towel aside, and pushes the bucket away. He gently draws his brother’s legs apart, bends at the waist, and captures one of Dean’s feet. He trails kisses along the freshly-cleaned instep, up the ankle, up Dean’s calf, his thigh. He runs his fingers gently along Dean’s cock, caressing it, blowing cool air from whistle-pursed lips.

 

Dean trembles with pleasure as Sam’s tongue runs along his cock, taking away with love and sex all the fear that had been infused into him. Sam’s lips, his teeth, his tongue, his mouth, all work in perfect sync in this final ritual of purification.

 

Dean moans, breathily, as pleasure consumes him.

 

The bath done, Sam helps him stand, helps him guide his bruised-but-exultant body to a bed. Sam quickly strips, and slides into bed with him. He caresses Dean’s face a few times more, and then, against the logic of daylight, they sleep.


End file.
